


Descending Dreams

by 1helios1



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Dreams, Other, Seduction, Smut, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1helios1/pseuds/1helios1
Summary: Morrowind is a strange place for outlanders. It's no easy thing to spend time there and remain unchanged. Particularly when bombarded with potent dreams and ancestral memories.
Relationships: Dagoth Ur/Nerevarine
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Descending Dreams

_“Even as my Master wills, you shall come to him, in his flesh, and of his flesh.”_  
―Dagoth Gares

She had been on Vvardenfell less than a week when she had the first dream. She found herself being led through a crowd of corpses by a tall figure with a beautiful golden mask. The bodies were arrayed about as if it were a wedding. Fear gripped her heart, but when the figure turned to face her, she felt an inexplicable thrill of elation, as if in recognition of an old friend. The feeling seemed to belong to someone else and passed in a moment. She had always been fascinated by dreams, how they could feel more real than reality, but usually that feeling passed when waking. This dream was different. There was a lingering sense that she had known the masked figure and the clarity of wakefulness could not shake it.

By day, she quested on behalf of the Empire. She had been tasked with discovering the secrets of the Nerevarine prophecies and the Sixth House, but learning of Lord Indoril Nerevar and Dagoth Ur was like being told an old, half-forgotten story. They called her Outlander here, and she felt the term keenly. It seemed everything about this country was the familiar made strange. By comparison the feeling of the dream, when not interrogated, was comfortingly normal.

The next time she dreamed of the tall figure in the golden mask. She felt her mind grasping for his name, knowing it was somewhere in her consciousness, just out of reach. He spoke to her, his voice like heavy fog, saying, “There are many rooms in the house of the Master. Be easy, for from the hands of your enemies I have delivered you.” Looking down she could see herself laid dead upon a slab lit by candles. She stood beside the masked figure and touched her body on the slab. The skin was cold and straw gold unlike her ash grey. The masked figure placed his hand beside hers, their fingers brushing. The touch sent a shiver through her and she felt the body on the slab grow warm. He opened his eyes and rose from the slab into a world filled with light. 

She awoke to find herself drenched in sweat, her body tense and a name on her lips: Voryn. Voryn Dagoth. 

She dressed slowly, examining her body in the mirror as she did, and perceiving an explicable otherness in her reflection. Hiking across Vvardenfell had had its effect on her physique, giving her a more androgynous figure that she found... welcome, but what she saw now was less clear, like looking at a dark sea and somehow perceiving the leviathan at the bottom, swimming just behind her eyes.

She had been staying in Vivec the last few days, seeking out several informants. Normally she took great pleasure in the sights and activity of the city, but this morning she found herself wandering through the waistworks as if in a trance, her mind completely on the dream. She passed by many shops and stalls, not really seeing them, until a dunmer woman grabbed her by the shoulders, startling her out of her reverie. The woman didn’t seem entirely there herself, but she met the outlander's eyes with a piercing gaze.

“We have you in our discerning eye,” she said, her face split by a smile like an axe wound. “We see you, waking and sleeping.”

The outlander's own eyes widened and she shook the woman off before backing away and making her escape into the crowd, suddenly acutely aware of the sensation of being watched from all sides. 

From her informants she learned of the Sixth House and the Nerevarine prophecies, and she was left with no doubt that the body in the dream, now awoken from the slab, was Lord Indoril Nerevar. Returning to her room in the foreign quarter was fraught with visions of his face on the mask of every ordinator in her path. How had she failed to recognize Nerevar until now?

Though she had enjoyed her stay in Vivec she was eager to leave in the morning for Balmora, to report her findings to Cosades and hear his thoughts. Even so, as she lay in bed mulling over the day and her next steps, she was given over to an intense anxiety, fearing that tonight there would be another dream to confuse and disorient her. The softness of her pillow and the warmth of her blankets did nothing to assuage the sense that she was on a precipice leaning out over something as of now ineffable. Dagoth Ur beckoned her down, and he could only be refused for so long.

She was sitting in the middle seat before a great table in a banquet hall lit by a soft red glow. Directly across from her sat Voryn and he was speaking with her amiably, and she to him. When she tried to reflect on what was being said, the words would drift just out of reach and she was only left with an impression. Voryn reached across the table to take her hand in his and she felt her heart flutter. She looked down to where his thumb gently stroked the straw gold skin of the back of their hand. Their face flushed and their nipples hardened, pressing against the fabric of their gown. They looked up at Voryn to see if he betrayed any sign of understanding, but he was gone, and they were alone.

She woke to see it was still quite dark out. The dream was fresh in her mind, and with a mix of excitement and trepidation she reached her hand down, her fingers brushing over the course, clipped hair above her sex, and then deeper down to find herself wet with arousal. She mused for a moment that if she reported on the dreams she would withhold this detail. She played with herself absent-mindedly, not towards a goal, but to try to keep the feeling alive as she pored over the dream again. Before long she drifted off into a pleasant, dreamless sleep.

The sun was already climbing high in the sky when she awoke the next day. For the first time in days she felt fully rested. She bought a little food for the silt strider journey to Balmora. It would take a half day, and assuming no delays they would arrive in the late evening. She expected, with little distraction available, to be preoccupied with reflection on the last few days, but she found herself not thinking much about it, just watching the scenery and chatting some with another passenger.

They arrived at Balmora on time and she dined at a tavern before meeting Cosades at his house. He received her report with his usual businesslike attitude and said little about the dreams. Her next task would take her out of the city again, to Ald'ruhn to meet another informant, an Ashlander. The trip to Ald'ruhn would be one of only several hours, but she elected to leave in the morning and got a bed at the inn for a night. Normally she made use of the bed Cosades provided, but she felt the need for privacy. When she woke in the early morning without having dreamed, she realized with a pang of emotion that she was disappointed. It felt like rejection.

The informant in Ald-ruhn lived up to his designation. He told her much of the Nerevarine and provided some minor insight about the dreams, connecting the golden masked figure to the masks of the ordinators, in substance but not spirit. She had all the pieces now, not that she really needed the external confirmation; the dreams were clear. 

They were standing in a cavern with a mixture of Dwemer and Sixth House architecture. Before them stood the tall figure in the golden mask. Voryn Dagoth spoke then, in a clear, almost musical tone, “Lord Nerevar Indoril, or Nerevarine now? Three belied you, three betrayed you. One you betrayed was three times true. Lord Voryn Dagoth, Dagoth Ur, steadfast liegeman, faithful friend. What we could have had was robbed from us. Return to me.”

The Nerevarine knelt before Dagoth and took his hand, kissing it and begging his forgiveness for their doubting him all those years ago at the heart of the mountain. He raised that hand to cup their cheek. They leaned forward to rest their head against his pelvis. They could feel the swell of him, and a deep need stirred between their legs. They placed a hand on his hip as if to anchor themself and looked up to lock their eyes with his, shadowed behind his mask, but so radiant.

Later, the Nerevarine awoke feeling a now familiar wetness between their thighs, felt their hand snake down as if not their own, their mind still half in the dream. They imagined joining Voryn in Red Mountain, expressing their desire for reconciliation more... physically. They imagined getting on their knees and tasting him. In this half-awake state it was easy to move from one imagining to the next and so they let their mind explore while they stroked themself into a stupor.

The Foyada Mamaea was a road carved over eons by the lava flows from Red Mountain. If they walked its length they would pass through Ghostgate and eventually arrive at the very doorstep of Dagoth Ur—the place, and the being.

The hike was long and beyond Ghostgate the winds carried harsh volcanic dust and ash. Their head wraps protected them from the worst of it, but the abrasive winds could never be completely ignored. The road continued on, winding up the mountain past other, lesser fortresses. They passed ash creatures too, who would turn as if looking, sightless but perceiving. None delayed them, but all took note of their approach. They arrived at last at the rim of the caldera. From here they could see all the way down to the lava in the mouth of the volcano. Built in and around it were the towers and machinery of the ancient Dwemer fortress that now housed Dagoth Ur. From here the path continued down into the caldera and to the spherical Dwemer door leading into the fortress. An ascended sleeper waited beside the door, its many facial appendages drifting lazily in the wind. It bowed in greeting and gestured at the door, which opened as if responding to a silent command. The Nerevarine stepped forward and entered fortress with the ascended sleeper close behind. From the entry hall they could only see more steps leading down. The sleeper beckoned them on, and on they went. 

They followed the sleeper down and down, deep into the Dwemer fortress, past other sleepers and slaves, passage after passage, always descending. Finally they arrived at a small stone chamber cut roughly from the rock with a black altar adorned with ash statues. Beyond was another Dwemer door, from which Dagoth Ur emerged. He gestured for the sleeper to leave as he walked towards the center of the room. His mask caught the red light from the altar on its different facets in a way that suggested changing facial expression. Neither they nor Dagoth spoke, both acknowledging some unspoken understanding that ritual precedes conversation. They studied each other for a time. They noted that Voryn was not quite as he appeared in the dreams. Tall and strong, yes, but not quite as broad of shoulder, skin not as unmarked. A long scar ran up his abdomen, on the right side. Had they done that, when they were Nerevar? He stood close now and they reached out to touch the scar, running their fingers over it, before stepping away again and walking to the altar. Candles gave the altar a red glow that glinted in the eyes of the ash statues arrayed around the perimeter. They turned to look at Voryn, to make sure he was watching them, before they began stripping off their armor, briefly exposing the soft skin of their belly as the armor lifted away. They set the dust-worn netch leather on the ground beside the altar before attending to the laces of their shirt. Voryn strode closer, his eyes focused on their body, as they lifted the shirt over their head, revealing their breasts. They could hear his breath come faster now and see him respond behind the decorative fabric panel that hung from his loincloth. They shimmied out of their pants and put them on the pile with the rest. The air was pleasantly warm against their bare skin and they enjoyed the feeling of him watching them. They sat themselves down on the smooth stone surface and leaned back, their hands propping themself up, spreading their legs slightly and eyeing him. He strode slowly over while undoing the cord around his waist. The cloth covering fell away and he left it there on the ground in his wake.

He knelt down between their legs, placing one hand on their bare thigh and the other beside their waist. They leaned forward, bringing their face up to his to kiss the finely formed lips of his mask, cold and metallic. He reached forward with one hand to gently push them down onto the stone and slid himself forward so that his narrow waist was between their knees and his head was above theirs. Strands of his hair fell down on either side of his mask as he loomed over them. They spread their legs further, beckoning him onward. They caressed him, their fingers moving along the smooth contours of the muscles of his lower abdomen before sliding lower to circle around the length of him. They met his gaze again and beckoned him onward with a look.

He placed one of his hands against their chest, between the swell of their breasts, and pressed gently down. Obligingly they lowered their back and head to the stone beneath. Then he took their hands one by one, placing them above their head before grasping both of their wrists in his powerful grip, pinning them down against the altar. He paused for a moment, as if admiring their body arrayed before him, before using his other hand to guide the tip of him to their sex. Behind his mask his eyes were two dark voids, pulling everything into them like whirlpools in a pitch dark ocean. Their whole body was thrumming, eager, and finally he began to slowly push himself forward, into them, inch by ecstatic inch. They wrapped their legs around him and raised their hips to meet his with every forward surge.

The feeling of him thrusting into them again and again, the rhythm a chant of submission. If they were under some spell of Dagoth's they did not care. This was as it should be, they told themself. This was right.


End file.
